


Remembrance

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Strongly in character, General, Plot - Bittersweet, Post-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2004-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-24 18:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3778849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was going on in Frodo’s mind before he left for the Havens? And what did Sam think about Frodo’s leaving after he had returned home? This story, inspired by Evanescence’s <i>My Immortal</i> tries to answer these questions.  - You will find many quotes from <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> in this story, as well as some lines taken from the above mentioned song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incurable Wounds

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The sun was sinking low, sending her pale golden light over the dark green hills of the Shire. It was a peaceful light, heralding the day's ending. Dark-blue clouds shimmered in a blazing red sky. A fresh wind was blowing, stroking its fingers gently through the grass-blades on its way. 

A small form, wrapped in a grey cloak, was walking beside the Water, slowly making its way to Bywater Pool. Few would see it, for the cloak it wore was of elvish origin, shielding its wearer from the eyes of others, if he wished. 

Frodo did not wish to be seen, for there were thoughts that troubled him and he had to think them through. Alone. 

The wind's fingers brushed through his hair, tickling Frodo's nape. The hobbit's eyes were fixed on the last sunbeams glimmering in Bywater Pool, until faint laughter met his ear. His gaze wandered to the road above him, where two hobbits were making their way to the _Green Dragon_ , laughing and joking as they came along. 

A smile crept over Frodo's face. They could laugh again, knowing nothing of the darkness that took hold of the lands outside their borders. But the Shire had not been wholly safe, for even in that peaceful country evil had been sown; slowly and without much heed of the Dark Lord, but no less painful and frightening to its inhabitants. 

Many had now forgotten what had happened or why things had come to pass the way they had. Only one stone held the remembrance of those who had given their lives in protection of their home at the Battle of Bywater, the only battle fought in the Shire since the Greenfields and hopefully the last.

No one remembered Frodo, although he had gone far and suffered to protect his beloved home. No one ever asked him what had happened, or why he was missing a finger. And if they did, they didn't really want to know. It was not that Frodo was angry. He had never sought to earn glory and honour. Somehow he was even relieved that no one asked him, that he didn't have to talk about what happened. Of course there was a lot of gossip, but as people paid little attention to the deeds done outside their borders (even if it was one of them who had accomplished them) the leaving and the unexpected return of the four hobbits had soon lost interest. 

This was one of the reasons Frodo loved the Shire. People were able to forget. 

Frodo sighed as a chill ran down his spine. Wrapping his cloak closer about him, he shivered. The sunlight had faded and was almost gone. Above him Frodo could still hear the distant laughter of hobbits in the inn. He sat down on the soft grass, a sad smile on his face. Slowly he reached out his hand, his fingers gliding gently through the dark water of Bywater Pool. The surface curled and small circles drifted into the deeper parts of the pond. 

Frodo watched them silently, while midges whirred about him. He waved them away, as his eyes fell upon a dragonfly which was zipping along the lakeside, disappearing in the reeds and then coming forth again. Frodo's eyes followed the little insect, when far away the hobbit heard the grumbling of thunder. He looked up to see the sky getting darker and rain clouds gathering slowly. Still, it would be some time until it began to rain, so he looked into the water again and remained seated on the grass while his fingers stroked through its blades. This was his home, but he couldn't truly recognise it anymore. Others might be able to forget, but he could not. 

For so long his only wish had been to return home. Now that he was home, he didn't feel the comfort he should. He was not the same as when his journey started. He was wounded with knife, sting, tooth, and a long burden. He could not forget. 

He had betrayed them all. After carrying the ring so far, after he had endured the pain it caused him, suffered the fears that haunted him, and resisted the ring's promises, he had failed them. In the end, his will was not strong enough to destroy the ring and finish the task laid upon his shoulders. 

New chills shook the weary body and the hobbit quickly drew his cloak closer, gazing silently into the dark water of Bywater Pool. 

He knew that he shouldn't think that way. Everyone kept telling him that he had accomplished a great deed. Great it may have been, but it was Gollum's deed, not his. Frodo knew that, if not for the wretched creature, Middle-earth would not be as blessed as it was now. Hobbits in the Shire would not be able to forget, if they were still alive. 

Another chill shook him, this one of fear. It was always the same. Frodo knew it already. Often did his thoughts drift back to the very moment he claimed the ring as his own, but never did he dare to think of the things that could have been afterwards. What could have happened, if Gollum had not followed them. 

Frodo's hand fumbled desperately for the gem around his neck, as dreadful images filled his mind. Suddenly he could smell the heavy air of Mordor again. He was stumbling across Gorgoroth plain, dust and stone scratching his weary feet. Cold, raw hands were touching him, searching and stripping him. The growling voices of orcs filled his mind and then he could see them. Smiling maliciously they questioned him, their gloating eyes resting insidiously upon his naked body. Then there was fire; a red, blazing eye. 

Frodo gasped for breath, as his fingers clutched the gem. 

_'When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you, this will bring you aid.'_

Slowly the images disappeared and Frodo realised that he was still sitting by the pond, the noises of the inn faint above him. He sighed and the tension in his body lessened. 

Carefully Frodo opened his hand, gazing thoughtfully at the white gem it held. He wondered if the Lady Arwen had known that he would be haunted by his memories, when she gave it to him. Whatever her reasons, the star-like gem had aided him, though it could not ease all his pain. Some wounds were too deep and would not be cured easily. 

He could not forget and this caused him to suffer. All Frodo wanted was to return and go on with his life as he did before. He wished to be a plain hobbit again, taking pleasure in feasting, singing, laughing, and smoking a pipe by the fireside. But he could not return to his former life, though he was always trying to. He had changed too much. 

Sometimes he found himself longing to feel the weight of the ring again, to touch its smooth surface, to hold it one last time. But it had been destroyed. Frodo knew that it wasn't his deed, but he was unsure if people around him knew it as well. In the end he had given in to the temptation of the ring; but whether it was only he who was not strong enough, or if no one could have resisted its evil power, Frodo knew not. 

The hobbit blinked as a soft drizzle dampened his cheeks. In the distance he saw a flash of lightning. The thunderstorm was closer now. Swiftly Frodo got to his feet, wrapping his cloak closely about him and hastened back to the road above. There he stopped for a moment, gazing at the _Green Dragon_ which shimmered in the inviting light of many lanterns. Still he could hear the hobbits laughing and, as he turned to leave, somebody was beginning a drinking song. For a moment Frodo was tempted to join the merriment in the inn, but then he shook his head and slowly headed back home. His eyes were fixed on the ground, as he trotted along the road, while the drizzle changed into rain.

Frodo had changed and sometimes he found it difficult to join in the happiness of others. Since his return almost two years ago he had tried to be as joyous and light hearted as he had been before, but ever so often his thoughts drifted away and grew dark. Especially on anniversaries like the attack on Weathertop, darkness overcame him. Frodo tried to conceal it from his friends, especially Sam, but he felt himself tiring.

~~~

The last time he was ill had been in March. Frodo remembered writing in the Red Book. He had been sitting in his study in Bag End, his quill moving swiftly across the pages, writing, writing as if his life depended on it. Remembrance overpowered him. One thought chased the other; one picture hunted the next. Frodo didn't even think about what he was writing. His hand just moved, while he stared blankly at the pages. He felt dizzy. The small wound of Shelob's bite was red and swollen and the pulsing pain from it slowly spread through the hobbit's body. Frodo tried to ignore it, but the pain grew stronger. And still his hand was moving swiftly across the pages. Hardly was he aware of his laboured breathing and his bleary sight until at length his head lolled forward and hit the desk. The quill slipped from his hand, its tip forming a dark spot of ink in the midst of the page. 

Frodos eyes were closed, as his trembling fingers weakly felt for the gem around his neck. When he finally got hold of it his knuckles turned white, so desperate was his grasp. Slowly he sat up straight again, trying to blink away the dizziness. His hand quivered as he gripped the quill and laid it aside. For a moment he stared at the spot of ink which seemed to grow in his mind and then... 

Frodo shook his head and got to his feet in a swift movement, his chair almost tipping over. Darkness should not take hold of him. This was his home; it had always been safe and should not cease being so now. He swayed and for a moment leaned heavily against the desk. His breathing was laboured, his hands sweaty. In his heart Frodo knew that he could not succeed, but nevertheless he tried to.

He straightened again, as he heard Sam coming down the hallway. Reluctantly Frodo let go of the white gem and forced himself to smile, though his eyes betrayed him. Still he hoped that Sam would not recognise his illness, for his dear friend had other worries and could not be occupied with his sorrows as well. But as soon as Sam entered the study, Frodo knew that he recognised it, though Sam kept silent and only glanced suspiciously at his master's pale face.

~~~

Frodo began to run as the rain grew harder. Only then did he realise that he was holding Queen Arwen's gem again. He slowed down to look at it once more. Small raindrops dimmed his sight, as he turned it thoughtfully in his hand before hiding it under his shirt collar. As he started to run again he remembered her words to him. 

_'A gift I will give you. For I am the daughter of Elrond. I shall not go with him now when he departs to the Havens; for mine is the choice of Lúthien, and as she so have I chosen, both the sweet and the bitter. But in my stead you shall go, Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it. If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed.'_

Often had he pondered her words. He did not wish to leave. He loved his home and did not want to part with it a second time. Everything in the Shire had become dear to him, from grass to field, to river and hill; every hobbit, be he young or old, clever or stupid, had a place in his heart, and he did not want to part with them. Yet he knew that he would never find any peace here.

Another reason he was unsure about leaving was his friends. They had gone through darkness and pain with him and Frodo knew they would follow him again, wherever he might go. Yet his dear friends had returned, grown in mind and heart. All of them had been able to pick up the threads of their lives again, while the threads of Frodo's life slipped from his hands. They were lost to him, as soon as he had claimed the ring for his own.

Merry and Pippin led a jovial life together at Crickhollow, but they often came for visits. Sam, though living in Bag End, had a family of his own now, his small daughter being only five months old. Frodo didn't want to bother them with his worries and his nightly fears. Therefore he concealed his illness from them, although he suspected they already guessed that not everything was all right. Sam was especially suspicious. He least of all should worry about Frodo now. Sam had cared long enough for him and could not always be torn in two. He had to care for his wife and children, for there were many children yet to come; Frodo had seen them in his dreams. 

Frodo was sure that his odd dreams came from carrying the ring. Two dreams there were that recurred. One showed Sam and Rosie and their family of at least six children. Sam sat in a chair at the fireside, reading from the Red Book, telling his children of the Great Danger they had fought in the age now gone. Everywhere in Bag End Frodo could see vases with flowers from the garden, which was in full bloom, shimmering in the light of the setting sun. Sam was smiling. He had so much love to give and to share with his family. 

The other dream was wholly different. Frodo had had it before at Tom Bombadil's house. He heard sweet singing; a song that seemed to come like a pale light behind a grey rain-curtain. All turned to silver and glass until at last the veil was rolled back and a far green country under a swift sunrise was revealed. Warmth filled his heart, but Frodo also felt a desperate longing for the light and the song. 

_'If your hurts grieve you still and the memory of your burden is heavy, then you may pass into the West, until all your wounds and weariness are healed.'_

Frodo sighed quietly, as he laid his hand upon the garden door of Bag End. He didn't enter, but looked silently at the hobbit-hole before him - his home. A dim light shone from the window in the living room and smoke rose from the chimney. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, followed by a grumbling thunder. Still Frodo stood motionless at the garden door, raindrops dripping from the hood of his cloak. His thoughts came back to the same conclusion. 

Sam had so much to give that should not be wasted on him, for Frodo knew that whatever Sam did would not help him. He could not find peace in the Shire any more. 

His eyes filled with tears as he turned away from the hobbithole and followed the path further to the tree atop the Hill. Searching for shelter under its strong branches Frodo leaned against the tree's trunk. Tears mingled with the raindrops on his cheeks as he gazed down at the lights of Hobbiton. The Shire, though he wished it to be, was not his home any more. It did not offer him the rest and healing he longed for. And although he loved his country he didn't feel the warmth in his heart he had felt before. 

"I wonder if I shall ever look down into that valley again," he had asked himself when his journey started. He had been allowed that last look and it was more pleasant than he had hoped, but now it was over. He had to leave.

_'For about this time of the year, when the leaves are gold before they fall, look for Bilbo in the woods of the Shire. I shall be with him.'_

As Frodo remembered Elrond's words he stood up straight again and dried his tears. He would go with them, joining Bilbo on his last journey. Deep in his heart Frodo begged that his hope of finding healing would not prove false. But then he knew that Queen Arwen would never have offered it to him if it were not true. 

Frodo shivered, but he could not avert his gaze from the lights of Hobbiton. There were still some days left to him, days he could spend in the Shire, drinking in its sight before leaving it forever. Yet he felt as if he had to say farewell now and therefore he remained on the Hill a little longer, until at last he waved and trotted down the path again. He was not completely content, but he felt lighter in heart and mind. 

As Frodo entered the hobbit-hole it was utterly dark. He wondered why for a moment but then remembered that little Elanor had cried all night long and her parents hadn't gotten any sleep. A loving, yet sad smile crept over his face as he carefully slipped out of his cloak and rubbed his wet curls. 

His leaving would be hard to bear for his dearest Sam, but he would understand. Frodo was sure that he would. Sam knew his wounds as well as Frodo knew that he could not conceal his illness from Sam's watchful eyes. They had been through far too much. Parting with Sam would be the hardest thing for Frodo as well, for Sam had become his dearest friend. He would always have a special place in Frodo's heart, no matter how many miles lay between them. He loved Sam and would never forget what he had done for him. 

"Frodo wouldn't have got far without Sam," he had once said and the further they went, the truer these words became. It was not only because of Gollum that the task was achieved, but also because of Sam, who had had the most important part. He had looked after all three of them: himself, the ring and Frodo, whom he gave the better part of his attention. Frodo would never be able to thank him enough for what he had done and suffered on their way to Mordor. 

Thoughtfully Frodo looked at the room Sam shared with Rosie and little Elanor. It would be difficult to part, but he had to leave. He reached for a candle and lit it. The small flame flickered as Frodo slowly walked through every chamber, going from one corner to the next, his fingers gliding over desks and closets as if to say farewell. Last he went into his study, where he sat down in silence at the table. Of all rooms in Bag End this one had always been dearest to him. Carefully his fingers stroked the wooden surface of the desk where he had spent so many hours. He reached out for the Red Book lying in front of him. His fingers glided gently over its plain leather covers before he opened it and reached for a quill. Taking a deep breath, he dipped its tip into the ink bottle.

_It took a long time but today I have come to a decision. I will leave the Shire, for I'm wounded and my heart is not at ease. Though I have been happy here for many long years, I feel that I can't find any more happiness now. I am home, but I cannot forget what happened. These wounds won't seem to heal. This pain is just too real. There's just too much that time can not erase. Not here, anyway. And if one last wish was granted to me, I would ask for many years like 1420 in the Shire and that people would love their land as I have done. Farewell my sweet home. Farewell…_


	2. Grief and Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was going on in Frodos mind before he left for the Havens? And what did Sam think about Frodos leaving after he had returned home? This story, inspired by Evanescences _My Immortal_ tries to answer these questions. - You will find many quotes from _The Lord of the Rings_ in this story, as well as some lines taken from the above mentioned song.

A small fire glimmered in the hearth of Bag End's living room, bathing the chamber in a warm light. The fire crackled as one of the dry logs was greedily swallowed by the bright, red flames. The only other noise was the soft breathing of Samwise Gamgee, who sat motionless in an armchair in front of the hearth, gazing thoughtfully into the flickering flames. Rosie had long gone to bed. They had spent all evening talking, after he had returned at sunset. Sam could not find any sleep. There were still too many thoughts filling his mind: thoughts of Frodo, of their journey, and of the Grey Havens. 

The Grey Havens; he could not forget the salty smell of the Sea and the white ship that bore Frodo into the West. Frodo, who had been sad, and yet had smiled light-heartedly as Sam hadn't seen him smile for many years. And in his eyes there had been peace, when he boarded the ship. Sam could still see the light in his eyes and the light of Galadriel's phial glimmering in the growing darkness until at last it was lost, never to be seen again in Middle-earth. 

"You cannot be always torn in two," Frodo had said. Yet Sam felt even more torn than before, torn between his joy at having Rosie and little Elanor and the small bit of garden he'd always wanted and the sadness he felt at the loss of Frodo. Frodo, who had given up everything only to lose it again, after all he had taken upon himself was achieved. Now, of course, Frodo had the elves and Gandalf and Mr. Bilbo joining him, but Sam was pretty sure that that was not what his master needed. Yet it had been his decision and Sam would not mistrust Frodo's judgement.

Slowly Sam lifted his head and beheld Sting, which hung over the fireplace as it had always done, even in the days of old Mr. Bilbo. First Frodo had given him Sting, and now he had left Sam Bag End and all he had ever possessed. He was Master of Bag End now, a Gamgee, not a Baggins. Somehow it didn't feel right to Sam, and yet being a gift from Frodo made it right. Still it was Frodo he saw in every room, every teapot, every piece of paper. 

His master as he had seen him when he was a child, shortly after Frodo had moved in. Mr. Frodo at Bilbo's party; Frodo sitting on the bench in front of the hobbit-hole and offering him a cup of tea after a long day in the gardens; Frodo at the Cracks of Doom, worn and pale, madness and fear flickering in his eyes, his hand seeking the chain about his neck. And then Sam remembered the peace in Frodo's eyes after the ring had been destroyed, and the joy he had felt in the midst of ruin and destruction. Yet Frodo's eyes had been even more peaceful at the Havens. 

With a sigh Sam got to his feet and walked to the window. Stars were shimmering in the sky and the moon cast its pale light across the hills of the Shire. Sam looked down to the party field, to the very place where the _mallorn_ now grew. He smiled as he remembered the trees in fair Lothlórien and wondered how long it would take his _mallorn_ to be as tall as they. But then his thoughts drifted away and he mused if the trees in Lórien would diminish, now that the Lady Galadriel had also departed from Middle-earth. 

Sam looked around as one of the beams creaked. To his surprise there was no one there who could have made the noise. Sam stepped into the hallway and looked about, but still everything was dark and silent. His eyes wandered to the entrance. He half expected it to open as Mr. Frodo entered, and he would smile at him and tell him that he would never leave, neither Bag End nor the Shire. 

"Don't leave me here alone!" Sam had begged his master after they had escaped Shelob's tunnel. Yet Frodo had left him and he would not return. Sam waited a little longer, looking expectantly at the door, but it did not open. Eventually he bowed his head and leaned heavily against the wall, sadness filling his heart. 

Sam felt tears welling up inside him and swallowed hard. Frodo would not return. 

_'It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.'_

But why him? Why did it have to be his master and dearest friend? He had already been through so many perils and Sam had hoped that he could rest now, sitting on the bench in front of Bag End and smoking his pipe, just as he had often done before. Sometimes Sam had sat beside him and they had talked far into the night. But no more. Life in Bag End would be empty without Frodo.

Blinking away his tears Sam slowly went down the hallway. He noticed a pale light under the threshold of the study, frowned and slowly reached out his hand to open the door. His eyes first fell upon Frodo's desk and the vase which stood beside the quills glittering in the silver light of the moon. As Sam's gaze wandered across the room he realised how very tidy it was. Too tidy for the study of Bag End; no more books and scrolls were lying about, scattered all over the room. In the pale moonlight it seemed forlorn, bereft of all its former comfort. Sam sighed and leaned against the door frame. The study had always been dearest to Mr. Frodo. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again it was no longer moonlight that streamed into the chamber but sunlight and the warm, comfortable feeling slowly returned. 

~~~

Sam hadn't been inside Bag End very often, and not before Mr. Frodo had moved in almost a year ago. But every time he entered the big, cosy hobbit-hole he was taken aback by its grandness. He couldn't stop gazing from one side to the other, risking a short glimpse into every chamber. If someone saw him, he would just say that he was looking for Mr. Frodo, which was indeed what he was doing inside Bag End. Anyway, he wouldn't add that Mr. Bilbo had told him that Mr. Frodo would probably be found in the study, brooding over some books. Sam was very curious about books and the tales they told, but right at the moment Bag End seemed even more interesting. When he eventually decided to look for the study, he suddenly found himself wondering where to go, for he had never been anywhere other than Frodo's room, the kitchen and the parlour. 

As he trotted along the hallway Sam suddenly got nervous for there was neither sound nor sight of Frodo. Briefly he wondered if one could get lost in a hobbithole as big as Bag End.

"Mr. Frodo?" he called though his voice was no more than a shy whisper. Sam looked around nervously waiting for an answer that didn't come. Swallowing, Sam turned around. Maybe it would be better to go back and ask Mr. Bilbo to look for Mr. Frodo. Determinedly he shook his head and, gathering all his courage, he called again, louder this time. 

"I'm here," he heard the answer, "in the study. Come in!"

Sam smiled from one ear to the other as he headed for the door Frodo's voice came from and swung it open. The heavy smell of leather, mingled with that of narcissus, met his nose. Dazzled by the sunlight streaming in from the window, he blinked. Small specks of dust were dancing in the sunbeams, swirling about the vase filled with narcissus that stood on the desk. Frodo, who sat on the floor under the window, surrounded by a pile of books, looked up in surprise. 

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo," Sam muttered, blushing slightly. "Mr. Bilbo told me to…" He didn't get any further for he suddenly caught sight of the many books standing in shelves on the left side of the room. He stared at them, his mouth wide open. "Have you read all these?" he exclaimed, turning around in amazement. 

Frodo laughed. "No, I haven't, but I'm determined to do so."

Sam stared at him no less amazed, but felt himself blush as Frodo chuckled. "Begging your pardon," he muttered again, becoming slightly embarrassed. Still he couldn't stop himself from asking more questions. "Can you really read them all? What kind of books are they? Are there some of those tales about dragons and great kings going on adventures?"

"I daresay there are," said Frodo with a smile. "I may read something to you if you wish."

Sam's eyes brightened even more. He was almost bursting with excitement. "You'd do that?"

Frodo nodded with a grin and, waving Sam to him, he pushed aside some of the books. Sam hesitated, suddenly unsure if it was proper to sit beside his master's nephew and listen to him read. His eyes wandered across the room crammed with books, papers and scrolls, until at last they came to rest upon Frodo, who was looking expectantly at him, his face still brightened by a heart-warming smile. At length Sam cast away his doubts and sat down cross-legged beside him, waiting curiously for the tale to begin. Frodo grinned and as soon as he started to read, Sam drew a little closer, so he could catch a glimpse of the pages in the book. There were no pictures, but Sam was already amazed by the flowing script that filled the pages.

When Frodo recognised the young boy's curiosity, he chuckled. "I might ask Bilbo if he could teach you how to read," he suggested. 

Sam beamed at him. "Me, reading books and all? I'd be the only one in my family. I could read all those wonderful tales by myself and…" Sam gasped for breath, his eyes shining with pure joy. 

Frodo nodded. "I'm sure Bilbo would be happy to teach you letters. And if he isn't I might have a try."

Without any warning Sam suddenly flung his arms around Frodo's neck. Tears of joy glittered in his eyes. He couldn't think of anything but the stories and songs written down in books. He would read every single one of them, as soon as he could.

"Thank you," he whispered and took a deep breath before releasing Frodo from his embrace. As he did so he noticed for the first time that, not only the study, but also Frodo seemed to smell of books, though he wasn't quite sure. He had, after all, never been surrounded by books before.

When he looked into Frodo's eyes again he blushed, suddenly realising what he had just done, and turned hastily away, muttering excuses.

Frodo shook his head, chuckling, and patted the young hobbit on the shoulder. "There's no need to excuse yourself, Samwise."

As Sam lifted his head again, Frodo was still smiling at him and he couldn't help but smile as well. 

There under the window they sat and smiled at each other, while the sunlight slowly faded and the specks of dust were lost in the dim light of evening. And Mr. Frodo read to him the first of many tales he had heard in Bag End. For Sam it had always been on this very day that his friendship with Frodo truly began.

~~~

Sam blinked as the images slowly faded and it grew dark in the study once again, with only the moonlight glimmering through the small window. Yet the smell of books lingered and mingled with some others: ink, pipe-weed, rose hip tea and lavender; all those smells that were definitely Frodo. 

Frodo, who had left seven days ago; on the shores of Middle-earth they had shared their last embrace, which meant so much more than the one almost thirty years earlier. The bond between them was now stronger even than the elven-rope Sam had gotten from the elves of Lórien. Their relationship had been put to the test and they had passed it, leaving behind the shadow and the darkness which threatened to destroy not only their friendship but also themselves. 

They had escaped the shadow and yet it had gained on them, especially on Frodo. Sam had been worried about his master ever since their return to the Shire. Frodo had dropped out of all doings and Sam was grieved to notice that his master had hardly been honoured in his own land. Also, Sam knew that Frodo had been ill, though he tried to conceal it. He always knew when Frodo was unwell. He had been at his side too long, helping him up when he fell and easing his pain with comforting words of happier days. Sam left him in the belief that he had succeeded. It had been on the sixth of October when Sam became aware that the shadow was still heavy on Mr. Frodo. 

Sam had found Frodo in the study, sitting at the desk, his face pale as death. His eyes were unfocused and he seemed to see things far away.

_'I am wounded, wounded; it will never really heal.'_

The strange tone in Frodo's voice had frightened Sam and though Frodo seemed to be perfectly well the next day, Sam had been concerned. He knew Frodo's voice and the voice that had spoken to him had not been his beloved master's, but the one he had last heard at the top of Mount Doom, telling him that there was no veil between Frodo and the wheel of fire. It was only some days later that Sam realised that it had been exactly two years after the attack at Weathertop. 

Ever since, he had kept a close eye upon his master and he soon realised that Frodo was fingering the gem Queen Arwen had given him, far more often than Sam liked. The light in Frodo's eyes was again overshadowed by grief, though Sam could not make out exactly why. It was not until their journey to the Havens that Sam learned the severity of Frodo's injuries. 

Tears glittered in Sam's eyes as he remembered Frodo's words to him. Mr. Frodo hoped to find healing in the West and though Sam was grieved that Frodo did not, or maybe could not, look for healing in the Shire, he hoped that his master was granted the peace he so longed for. He deserved it, and Sam would give all he could to ensure that Mr. Frodo could be without any sorrow or pain again. Sam felt sorry for his master. He knew Frodo had wished to return to the Shire and find that nothing had changed. But all had been different when they returned: the Shire, Mr. Frodo, even Sam himself was not the same as when they left. 

Sam sighed as his eyes wandered once more across the study which looked as if it hadn't been used for years, except for the vase filled with asters standing on the desk. Tentatively he stepped inside, gliding his fingers gently across the shelf without knowing that Frodo had done likewise only a month earlier. Sam shivered. It felt strange, to enter the study and find everything was dark and cold and Frodo not inside, writing or reading or just seeking a little time for himself. 

Suddenly Sam froze and a shiver ran down his spine as a dreadful thought struck him. Today was the sixth of October. It was now three years ago that Frodo had been wounded by the Witch-king. Another shiver shook him, as he remembered the horror he had felt at the Nazgûl and the dread which had filled him after Strider had told him about the purposes of the enemy. Never would he forget the fears he'd had for Frodo, fears that still worrying him. Sam clenched his fists and, biting his lips, he blinked away the tears in his eyes. He could not help Frodo, not anymore. 

'Gandalf's with him,' he tried to reassure himself, 'He'll look after him. I'm sure he will. Mr. Frodo's all right, he has to be. Maybe he's reaching the western shores right this moment, and how could he enjoy his first sight of them when he's ill? He just has to be well, so stop your worries! He's hale.'

"He's well," he repeated in a whisper and took a deep breath, relaxing slowly again. While his fingers continued their movement across the shelf, Sam listened thoughtfully to the quiet soughing of the wind outside and finally became aware of how weary he was. After seven days of riding his body finally demanded a little rest, especially now that he was back home and could sleep in his own soft bed. Sam sighed. It was probably best if he went to bed now. After a proper amount of sleep he might feel a little better. 

Yet Sam found it hard to leave the study again, now that he had entered it. Something held him there, maybe the same feeling that had made Frodo love the study the way he did. Though it was still dark and chilly in the room, the feeling of comfort returned slowly, as if the study was wary of a stranger and not willing to welcome him as warmly as it had welcomed Frodo. 

Sam suddenly found himself standing in front of the desk, gazing down at a big book with plain red leather covers. He swallowed hard. 

_'I have quite finished, Sam. The last pages are for you.'_

Hesitating a few seconds, Sam finally pulled out the chair and sat down. It was the first time he had sat at the desk in the study and somehow it felt strange and pleasant at the same time. He leaned back in the chair and waited until he was wholly comfortable with the fact that he was sitting in Mr. Frodo's chair. No-one but the Master of Bag End sat in it, and now it was Samwise Gamgee's. Sam sighed. It would take some time until he became familiar with being Master of Bag End. 

His fingers lightly brushed the cover of the book. The last pages were for him. Sam looked for a candle and found one beside the quills. He lit it. The flame flickered and cast strange shadows on Sam's face. Once more Sam paused, listening again to the soughing of the wind. Then he took out an ink bottle from one of the drawers and also reached for a quill. Yet he did not open the book, but searched for a piece of paper. When he found one, he carefully dipped the tip of the quill into the ink and took a deep breath. His hand trembled slightly as he began to write. 

~

_Your presence still lingers here and it won't leave me alone. I've tried so hard to tell myself now you're gone. And though you're still with me I've been alone all along._

_It is difficult to part with you and yet I should learn to let go. I know you had your reasons and though my mind understands them, my heart can not._

_When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears. When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears. And I've held your hand through all of these years. But you still have all of me._

~

Sam felt tears stinging in his eyes as he wrote down those words which seemed to come from nowhere. His heart felt somewhat lighter, and yet it seemed to him that the lines he had written down grieved him even more than the thoughts of Frodo. 

_'Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do. And also you have Rose, and Elanor; and Frodo-lad will come, and Rosie-lass, and Merry, and Goldilocks, and Pippin; and perhaps more that I cannot see.'_

Mr. Frodo was right. He had so much to look forward to. He should not give in to the sadness he felt at the loss of his dear friend. Frodo had known what he was doing. He had made this sacrifice to maybe receive a greater blessing than he had been able to find here. Frodo's story in Middle-earth had ended; his was still going on. Never before had Sam given up hope and he would not begin to do so now. He would be one and whole as Frodo had wanted him to be. 

"Don't go where I can't follow!" Sam had once begged him and yet Frodo had gone where he could not. Not yet. 

"Your time may come," Frodo had said, though Sam had hardly realised it, so shocked was he to learn that Frodo was about to leave. But Frodo had talked to him again. When they shared their last embrace he had whispered into his ear. "Do not grieve, Sam. This is not a farewell forever. You may follow me, when the time comes. On white shores we will meet again, watching the silver waves of the Sea on a starry night, and no more fears and sorrows will trouble us. One day, we will meet again."

Amidst his tears Sam was smiling. He had forgotten Frodo's words in his grief. But now that he had remembered them, Sam knew that he would not forget them again. He would be happy in the Shire for many years, and when one day he was old and weary he would go to the Havens and pass into the West as Frodo had done. And when they saw each other, they would embrace, and Sam would tell Frodo everything that had happened in the Shire after he had gone, and they would laugh and be happy together, just as they used to be. 

Wiping away his tears, Sam dipped the tip of the quill into the ink again and wrote some more words. The candle burned low, as the wind soughed and Sam waited for the ink to dry. Then he carefully folded the piece of paper, opened the big book in front of him on the first empty page and laid it inside. Sam smiled as he closed the book again, stroking the leather cover gently and blowing out the candle. Only the pale silver light of the moon shone into the study again, as Sam silently left the room. 

~~~~~~

The piece of paper was never read by anyone but Sam himself. It remained in the book secretly, until one day many years later it was taken out again by old and weary hands. Their touch was almost a caress, as they slowly unfolded it with trembling fingers. "The time has come," whispered a throaty voice and there was a silent chuckle. 

A salty smell was in the air and in the distance the far cry of gulls stirred a secret longing. A smile brightened the wrinkled face of the hobbit wrapped in a grey cloak, and made him look younger. A sudden gust of wind snatched the paper from his hands and bore it away. The words once written on it were almost illegible. Only one line could still be made out.

_Your words will stay in my mind, and if one day white shores are calling me I will remember them and follow you. Farewell, my dear Frodo, until our next meeting._


End file.
